


Beyond Healing

by switmikan74



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Eventually Comes Around, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), M/M, but he is just bad at emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/switmikan74/pseuds/switmikan74
Summary: “Listen, Aziraphale,” He pauses because Crowley would only ever use his name when it is really serious, “You can’t keep running away from your feelings. I know that we used to consider a lot of things. But those days are over. Over, Aziraphale. What we have to do now is to be fucking honest. Because honestly, honestly, honestly, I love you so much. So much. If you think I regretted choosing you then you’re bloody wrong. Because I’ll choose you again and again even if you stop choosing yourself. I’ll choose you for the both of us.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Beyond Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Or the time Aziraphale almost gets eaten by his anxiety and paranoia. And they’re just a mess of emotions.

* * *

There is nothing in the world that Crowley could ever love besides Aziraphale. Perhaps, it is a caving ache within his chest, feelings not meant for a demon oozing out from every crevice of his whole being, bleeding for even a drop of the angel’s love. Perhaps, it is an undeniable truth plastered in every news if he could, just for Aziraphale to look at and end up thinking something entirely else. Perhaps, it is a miserable punishment, to love with every fiber of his soul, only to end up being denied.

Crowley could not count on his hands anymore how many times he has offered himself for Aziraphale—how many times he would choose the angel over the very essence of his redesigned existence just to keep his gaze, to stay by his side.

It is laughably wretched how for many a short moment he would see Aziraphale almost becomes unravel with his affections, only to see him take a hundred steps back—afraid, always frightened by things he gets himself ruffled inside his head.

“Angel,” He utters quietly, stepping obediently back when Aziraphale flinches under his fingertips. Soft blue eyes closing sadly, anxiously, before darting open, left and right—almost in a panic. He took another step away, “Aziraphale.”

“I got to go.”

He watches him leave as he does so many times. He had gotten so familiar seeing Aziraphale’s back that it is downright wrenching—the empty popping space that surrounds him surreptitiously consumes him inside, a perfect mirror of the caving gravity his soul only ever experiences when his angel would turn away.

“What are you so afraid of?”

.

.

.

“Is it so disgusting realizing you love a demon?”

* * *

Aziraphale, perhaps, is an open book for anyone willing enough to read him. He is indeed a rather expressive being, always wearing his emotions on his sleeves when it is inappropriate. He wondered if Crowley could see.

There are not enough words in the vocabulary of humans to describe the depth of his love for the demon. He knew that once he truly accepted his feelings, he would be all over the place.

Perhaps, he would even suffocate Crowley with the amount of affections he harbors for him. Perhaps, once Crowley realizes how disgustingly in love he is, he would end up chasing him away. Perhaps, he, himself, would be suffocated by his bottomless affection for the demon—how heavily grounded he feels whenever he felt his eyes on him, how his stare would scorch his skin, mar it red with just his gaze, how he has to constantly refrain himself from glowing whenever Crowley is around lest he gave it all away, how his heart would just explode whenever the demon utters his name.

He imagines a lot of things with Crowley.

A soft atmosphere. A homey cottage. Hot teas. Candlelit dinners. Midnight picnics. Quiet murmurs. Hot touches. Genuine promises. Warm cuddles. An unravelling of existences under unadulterated love.

“Aziraphale.”

He turns and meets the glares of the Archangels he left behind.

“What are you doing here again, Gabriel? Perhaps, you are not done threatening me the other day?” He puts his bravado, disguising the churning in his stomach to the best of his ability. Gabriel huffs, crossing his arms, “We saw you again with that thing.”

“That thing has a name. He is Crowley.” He pauses before adding, “Anthony J. Crowley.”

“I don’t care.” Gabriel has always been an insufferable big man, always trying to direct things his way, “I warn you, Aziraphale, know that I’ll find ways to make your life miserable—take the most precious thing away from you and vanish it in front of your eyes. This is divine punishment.”

“Nothing about it is divine, Gabriel.” He counters, “Stop being a child. You keep telling me that for over two years already.”

“And I’ll keep reminding you, you disgrace.” With a whirl, they were gone and he is left alone once more.

He imagines a lot of things with Crowley.

One of which is Gabriel’s threat coming into fruition.

.

.

.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.”

* * *

The empty book shop was a dawning answer to Crowley.

Aziraphale left. No farewell. No letter. No warning. He left. He left. He left. The thought races continuously inside his head, a hollow echo mocking his shriveled disposition. He sees black, lips tightening, and he thumps and thumps away on his chest because it felt like he needed to breathe—he needed something inside his chest besides an erratic beating exploding inside him, choking him.

Hands finding their way to long red hair, yanking and yanking—the physical pain is nothing compared to the chaos he is feeling.

Suddenly, he wishes he burns down with the book shop. _Maybe Aziraphale would come back to him then. If he knew that he is on the brink of death, probably, he could hear him say his confession—he needed to hear it just once if he could._

But Aziraphale left.

He left him.

That’s his answer.

.

.

.

“OI! A FUCKING BOTTLE HERE.”

“Sir, please. You have enough.”

“Enough? Enough?” He is near madness, hysterical, “I ought to be enough, ‘s what I am. But the bastard left. Left. Just like that. Enough, my arse. Fuck. Fuck. JUST FUCKING GREAT, AIN’T IT?”

* * *

Skittish.

That’s what he is. His silhouette would even startle him. It’s laughable. Truly. He couldn’t even be relaxed in his own home, his thoughts are quite frightening. He had to get away for a bit to clear his mind.

“Please, pray tell, why you seem to be coming over quite a lot, Mr. Fell?” Madame Tracy is a nice woman by all means. A little odd around the edges but she always means well. Their little friendship after the Armagedon’t has been flourishing splendidly to the point that visiting has become a norm.

Yet, he knows that visiting seven times a week is a bit _quite too much_. Performing a miracle just to transport himself in his hiding place and her house is exhausting but takes his mind off things.

“I’m sorry to disturb you on a fine afternoon, Madame Tracy,” Aziraphale started, wringing his hands in worry, “It seems that I am quite all over the place lately.”

“Oh my, whatever do you mean? Is this about Mr. Crowley?” The flinch gave him away and he sees the frown lightly marring Madame Tracy’s lips. He shrugs, “It’s not that… It’s just… I mean…”

“Does Mr. Crowley know?”

“Know what?”

“How you are feeling overwhelmed?” Her eyes were kind but stern, a sense of a motherly figure. He looks away in shame, hands altogether stopping from its tick. She walks towards him, hand gently caressing his hair in a reassuring manner.

“What is there to be overwhelmed, Mr. Fell?”

There are a lot of things, he thought. There are a lot of things he kept on stressing about. Many of them, if not all, involve Crowley. From a point to another point, he would round up to thinking about the demon. And about the fear that is keeping him grounded. Fear. What a monstrous thing to feel. Especially when it’s about losing someone.

“Everything.” He replied, “Oh, everything, Madame Tracy. I’m so very afraid. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him. Or if the angels harm him. Just thinking about it makes me lose myself.”

“You told me that you’re not on Heaven’s side anymore nor Mr. Crowley is on Hell’s. What is causing this fear?” She queried, her eyebrows shooting up in confusion. He shook his head, “I may be not on either side but the threats kept on coming. I can’t. I just can’t risk it.”

“What do you have to risk, Mr. Fell?”

“Crowley!” He frets, “I can’t risk him. He is everything to me. And Gabriel warned me—he warned me that he would take everything that is important to me. What if they already knew? They’re just waiting to strike. I just—oh, Madame Tracy, I can’t lose Crowley. I really can’t.”

“Dear boy,” She uttered, voice a lull in the afternoon rain, “do you love Mr. Crowley?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate in the face of a kind woman, awfully docile under her gaze, “Yes, I do.”

“Then why are you running away by yourself?”

.

.

.

“I—”

* * *

It’s been a week—a tiresome week.

Crowley lifts another glass to his lips, tongue darting to taste the alcohol. He could get alcohol poisoning—that will discorporate him probably. It will send him right down to Hell. And the demons could feast on his soul.

He doesn’t need to live anyway.

He got his answers.

After six thousand years, he finally had gotten his answer. Quite fetching, really. How creatively painful must an angel be to break a demon’s questionable heart. Aren’t they supposed to be creatures of _love_? Shouldn’t they be more open to it? Be delighted that they made a demon fall?

“ _Huh_.” He chuckles drunkenly, “Fall. All heavenly creatures on Your side are just so adept in making creatures like me _fall_. Amusing, ain’t it?”

The silence fouls his mood even more. He doesn’t expect for anyone to give him a response. But it still pricks his overly sensitive senses. He stretches his hand and laughs loudly as the sound of glass hits the wall.

He paces towards it, picks up the shards with bare hands and crunches them.

.

.

.

“Aren’t I a miserable one, Angel? Maybe, ‘s why you left.”

.

“Couldn’t accept loving a failed existence, huh?”

* * *

The concept of love is—it’s always a beautiful thing. It is soft and warm. Something like a cotton candy, sweet. Or maybe like crepes! He always loves crepes. It is just too savory—tempting, really.

But love is not a sinful concept at all, it isn’t supposed to tempt people. But humans’ way of feeling things is rather complicated. They just don’t feel a single thing of pure goodness. They are warped strings of emotions that got jumbled altogether, blurred into grayness that you can’t see where they start or end—there’s no clear demarcation for it. It’s an absolute mess!

Not that immortal celestial beings could say otherwise. Especially, immortal celestial beings that had been on Earth for far too long. Crowley and him had always been a special case. He supposed that it’s been a long time coming. Perhaps, it has always been part of the Ineffable Plan. God has always been mysterious that way but he dares not question Her. Not that it stops him from questioning the Archangels, but _still_.

God is different, he likes to believe that She understands.

He likes to. Really.

After the almost Apocalypse, things were rather _hectic_. He was always trying to get away from Crowley. Their lovely night at the Ritz was so memorable that it had triggered emotions, opened dams that should not be opened. How could an angel be so in love with a demon? This incredible, cunning, amazing demon he had for company for many millennia, who could possibly not fall in love with him? But oh! If this is written in the Ineffable Plan then She had something in store for them. And he really never liked the surprises She would come up with.

Sometimes, they’re just so cruel.

And he doesn’t—

He really doesn’t—

What would he do if falling in love with Crowley is just a stepping stone for a bigger Plan? And what if that Plan means someday hurting him so it could be achieved? What if they would be so in love but then it gets torn to pieces? He doesn’t want to be involved in the Plan anymore. He knows he’s not on Heaven’s side anymore nor Crowley is on Hell’s.

But one can never be too careful. The angels like to remind him that quite warningly.

He admits that he had done _things_ that should be punished. Maybe. Just _maybe_ She is just waiting for the right time to punish him because now he has something he really does fear losing.

And if he lost Crowley—

If he does lose him—

If one day, he woke up and suddenly Crowley was taken away from him—

If Crowley gets hurt because of him—

He would, absolutely would, just _die_.

He’d rather keep him alive. And if it means constantly deflecting, then so be it. He’d rather be unhappy if it means keeping Crowley alive.

.

.

.

Right?

.

_“Then why are you running away by yourself?”_

.

“Because I—”

.

“ _Do you love Mr. Crowley?”_

_._

“I do.”

.

“ _Then why are you running away by yourself?”_

_._

“ _Do you love Mr. Crowley?”_

_._

_._

_._

_“_ Why am _I_ running away?”

* * *

“Crowley?”

It must have been his imagination, his fantasy seeping out into the shadows of his confinement. How hard did he wish to hear Aziraphale call his name again?

“Crowley, where are yo—oh, dear!” He felt warm arms, hands gingerly picking the shards that imbedded themselves into his skin. He winces as dried blood surrounding the wounds make the cleaning more painful.

“What have you done to yourself?!” Aziraphale’s frantic voice beckons him a little closer to consciousness. See? See? If he hurt himself, Aziraphale might appear. “Oh, stop chuckling, you wily fool.”

“You came back.” Whatever this is, it felt too real. It’s an amazing imagination—the only thing other demons don’t have. He croaked, letting all his feelings out, “You came back. I’m glad.”

His imaginary Aziraphale pauses, wet droplets hitting his cheeks.

“Oh, Crowley, you fool.”

.

.

.

Another morning graces his eyes and he flinches, eyes opening.

.

.

“Angel?”

* * *

When Crowley wakes up, he is besides him. Aziraphale is a shivering mess, eyes red. He had thought he would lose Crowley then and there. The poor demon was covered in glasses from head to toe, bottles of alcohol rolling left and right. He thought Gabriel has finally made his warning a reality—but there are no traces of holy presence in the vicinity, just an extra-large amount of indescribable pain.

“Angel, where did you go?” Crowley asks, eyes almost glaring. Azirphale averts his eyes, “I’m sorry, my dear. I was…”

“Why’d you left?” _Why’d you left me?_

It breaks him to see Crowley like this. He never thought he would cause him such pain. A surge of guilt creeps in. He bits his lips, eyes down-casted in shame. Crowley looks so fragile, so hurt that he is afraid that if he touched him, he would crumble.

“I was…” He starts again, “I was just overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed.” Always quick with his wit, Crowley snaps, “Overwhelmed is when I run to you, begging you to come with me to Alpha Centauri because I thought we would not be able to stop the bloody apocalypse. Overwhelmed is when I sat down at a bar, crying myself into a drunken stupor because I thought I lost you. Overwhelmed is when you told me you’re never going to talk to me again if I don’t come up with a plan. But I never truly ever left you, didn’t I?”

“My dear—”

“No. No.” Crowley puts a hand up, “Let me speak, Angel. I waited and waited and waited. When I kissed you and you told me you had to go, I let you—trustingly so. It always pains me but I hope! I hope even under such severing misery, even when you constantly deny me of the feelings I deserve from you to have, even when you constantly pretend you don’t feel the same way. I hope! But, maybe, you thought of me too disgusting? Too wretched? How would a pure creature such as you love a fallen like me?”

Every word he spoke were little knives carving at his soul. He had hurt Crowley deeply this time, more than the last time that he did when he threw his request away to the pond. Looking at the crumbling state of Crowley was stabbing him.

“I did not leave, per say.” He intervenes mistakenly but Crowley only hisses at him before spatting, “I went to your book shop! And they’re empty. Not a single trace of your beloved books nor your things are there. I confessed to you and the next thing I knew is you’re gone!”

“I just kept it away somewhere.”

“Somewhere you did not tell me!”

“Crowley, let me explain!”

“NO!” Crowley explodes, eyes starting to sting, “NO! What you need is to sort yourself out! Let’s stop this dance because it’s killing me. I don’t want it anymore.”

Aziraphale scrambles, arms hugging Crowley tightly, “I’m so sorry, my dearest boy. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for hurting you. I’m so sorry for being so cowardly. I just don’t want you to die.”

“Die?”

“For the past two years, Heaven kept threatening me.” Aziraphale mutters, “They told me that they would destroy everything that I love. Crowley, that’s you! Everything that I love is you. I don’t want you to get destroyed for my punishment. I’d rather die myself a million times in place of you. I never intended to truly leave but if that’s all it takes to save you I—”

“I don’t want it!” Crowley shrieks, arms finally responding to the embrace, “If you leave me, I will just discorporate myself and send myself to Hell. Be tortured for all eternity than live without you. Because I finally have you. Just to lose you because you left willingly, that’s too much. I don’t want it.”

“But if I ever do, it’s because I want you to be happy—” He sobs.

“Listen, Aziraphale,” He pauses because Crowley would only ever use his name when it is really serious, “You can’t keep running away from your feelings. I know that we used to consider a lot of things. But those days are over. Over, Aziraphale. What we have to do now is to be fucking honest. Because honestly, honestly, honestly, I love you so much. So much. If you think I regretted choosing you then you’re bloody wrong. Because I’ll choose you again and again even if you stop choosing yourself. I’ll choose you for the both of us.”

Crowley knows a lot about him. He pretends that Crowley doesn’t. But truthfully, the demon does. And it’s overwhelming how much he would hold on to someone as imperfect as he—as insecure and painfully oblivious as he. He always knows what to say and when to say them, always reading between the lines of what he speaks. Perhaps, he never really had a chance in ever hiding something from Crowley. Perhaps, he naturally couldn’t.

Because he always comes around to a point where Crowley is waiting. Always patiently waiting for him.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.”

“No,” Crowley starts, “It’s I love you, Crowley. You got to compensate me double for making me miserable, Angel. I almost poisoned myself. Yuck.”

He couldn’t help the watery smile, couldn’t help but notice how normal they could chat around after a dramatic outburst—as if it’s always meant to be like this, with him by Crowley’s side.

“Aziraphale?”

He hummed in response.

“You’ll not suddenly disappear, right?”

.

.

.

He doesn’t.


End file.
